More Blago fallout: Tongue prize trashed

It is with profound sadness and regret that I must inform you of a shameful scandal involving this column.

It's the Beef Tongue Guy.

It turns out that The Beef Tongue Guy is a big fat liar.

Kevin Floyd recently won my Name That Blago Book contest to choose a proper title for the memoirs of our infamous former governor, Rod "Dead Meat" Blagojevich.

Floyd's winning entry, "Rod and the Giant Impeach," earned him two tickets to the hit political play "Hizzoner" and a promise from Blago's publisher of a volume autographed by Dead Meat himself.

But the big enchilada was a meaty 3-pound raw beef tongue, symbolizing the day (we hope) that Blago wags his own tongue and sings to a federal grand jury.

Two weeks ago, we held the solemn Presentation of the Meat ritual right outside Tribune Tower. "Hizzoner" star Neil Giuntoli (playing the late Mayor Richard J. Daley) presented the tongue on a silver platter, before hundreds of curious onlookers and a dozen TV news cameras.

In a compelling conclusion, Floyd held the platter high, then kissed the tongue with respect. And if you don't believe me, watch the video at chicagotribune.com/blagobook.

Many fought back tears of joy. One chunky columnist was seen by his assistant hiding behind an extremely tiny, leafless tree, weeping uncontrollably, thinking no one could see him.

"I can't wait to cook it," Floyd said after kissing the tongue.

Do you promise?

"I vow to treat this tongue with respect," Floyd said. "And I'll peel it before serving, I promise."

An instant celebrity, Floyd was greeted by strangers at many St. Patrick's Day parties.

Readers sent recipes. George Foss, originally from Hanover, Pa., sent Floyd an ancient tongue technique from "The Amish and Mennonite Kitchens" cookbook:

Rub the tongue with salt, pepper and brown sugar and place in an airtight container, store "in a cool place" and turn daily for three days. "On the 4th Day, remove and rinse well. Cook about 2 hours, or until tender. Peel outer skin from tongue. Cool and slice."

Mmm. That's good eating.

Floyd, a boyish 30, even received romantic overtures from attractive female employees in the marketing department of a major metropolitan paper. The women swooned after he kissed the tongue.

Sadly, I had to inform them that Floyd was married to the lovely Kate. Honor and truth are his two middle names, and he wasn't about to fool around with fetching marketing department females.

Then, just the other day, I was smacked in the face with the cold tongue of betrayal.

"The tongue was really good. Really ... I'm not lying. I ate it all," Floyd wrote in a note. But the old Chicago reporters' credo says that if some guy tells you he really loved his beef tongue, check it out. So we checked it out. And Floyd was caught in his web of lies.

He stubbornly stuck with his story, just like some moronic Chicago politician who pretends not to know who really controls the asphalt business. But under withering cross examination, Floyd broke down.

"All right, all right, you've got me," Floyd said. "The truth is, I had it in my fridge for like eight days, and I was trying to think of what to do with it. I put it on the mantel of my fireplace as a trophy, but Kate demanded I put it back in the fridge."

Floyd said he thought about cooking it Amish style, but he couldn't bring himself to get past step one, which would have been to unwrap the tongue and touch the crease at the back of it.

"It was nasty. And that was one step farther than I wanted to go," Floyd confessed. "I ended up throwing it out."

He kept it for a heartbreaking eight days, unable to touch it, unable to abandon it. Finally, he tossed the rancid thing into the garbage. And the moral of this story?

Beef Tongue Guy took something of great value, wasted it, then lied repeatedly until he finally got caught. Just like a Chicago politician.